Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. Do you know this, Sir?" he added, taking a key from his pocket. “Mine is a primitive and unstudied manner.
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